I met the wolf alone and was devoured in peace.

And so beneath the weight lay IAnd suffered death, but could not die.

Lie down beside these watersThat bubble from the spring;Hear in the desert silenceThe desert sparrow sing;Draw from the shapeless momentSuch pattern as you can;And cleave henceforth to Beauty;Expect no more from man.Man, with his ready answer,His sad and hearty word,For every cause in limbo,For every debt deferred,For every pledge forgotten,His eloquent and grimDeep empty gaze upon you,—Expect no more from him.

Few Come This WayFew come this way; not that the darknessDeters them, but they comeReluctant here who fear to find,Thickening the darkness, what they left behindSucking its cheeks before the fire at home,The palsied Indecision from whose dancing headPrecipitately they fled, only to come againUpon him here,Clutching at the wrist of Venture with a coldHand, aiming to fall in with him, companionOf the new as of the old.

Strong sun, that bleachThe curtains of my room, can you not renderColourless this dress I wear?—This violent plaidOf purple angers and red shames; the yellow stripeOf thin but valid treacheries; the flashy green of kind deeds doneThrough indolence, high judgments given in haste;The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste?